


Impromptu Heaven

by maragutsandpains



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Caretaking, Comfort, Cuddling & Snuggling, Cuddling Castiel/Dean Winchester, Depowered Castiel (Supernatural), Domestic, Domestic Fluff, First Kiss, Fix-It of Sorts, Fluff, Getting Together, Huddling For Warmth, Human Castiel (Supernatural), M/M, No Jack Kline, Post-Season/Series 14, Pre-Season/Series 15, Sharing a Bed, Sick Dean Winchester, Sickfic, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Warm and Fuzzy Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-28
Updated: 2019-10-28
Packaged: 2021-01-04 23:14:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,519
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21205634
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maragutsandpains/pseuds/maragutsandpains
Summary: All Dean knows is that Rowena got mad at him for asking her in a bad Scottish accent to “stop bitchin' and get witchin'”, felt her eyes fall on him like a hawk on a tundra rabbit, and then woke up lying in the snow in the middle of nowhere.As hypothermia starts to gnaw away at his consciousness, Dean can only think about how pretty the world would be if the sky was the same shade of blue as Cas' eyes.Wouldn't that be a beautiful world?Castiel blue.





	1. Comfortably Numb

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! This fic, the second I've ever written (the first was Blown Out (in your Sky Eyes) if you want to check out a much longer fanfic), is inspired by an actual, wonderful dream I had.
> 
> I'm warning you against pure, unapologetic fluff, and probably close to no originality. I'm in a deep need of tenderness, right now, so this is me treating my touch-starved ass.
> 
> For some reason, I feel like the Pink Floyd song Comfortably Numb fits this fic perfectly, so feel free to listen to it while reading!
> 
> Please enjoy: the lovechild my brain and too much destiel fanfiction.

Comfortably Numb

_Hello? Hello? Hello?_

_Is there anybody in there?_

_Just nod if you can hear me_

_Is there anyone at home?_

_Come on now_

_I hear you're feeling down_

_Well I can ease your pain_

_Get you on your feet again_

_Relax_

_I'll need some information first_

_Just the basic facts_

_Can you show me where it hurts?_

God, what Dean wouldn't give for a gallon of diabetes-inducing hot chocolate and a parka, right now.

His throat is parched and sore from yelling « FUCK YOU, ROWENA! », among other obscenities, his voice swallowed whole by the wind, absorbed by the fat snowflakes, lost anyway in the deserted woods.

Dean shoved a few handfuls of snow in his mouth after the first couple of hours of wandering, but with the luck he's been in lately, it tasted so bad he probably ate frozen fox pee.

It's too cold for beer, so hot chocolate sure sounds like a dream.

Dean comes to a halt between two trees. Two identical pine trees. They all look the same. Scraggy, rough, dark, they all look _exactly_ the same and they all stare him down, _like asshole trees_, he thinks to himself. He could have stumbled between those two a hundred times and be none the wiser.

Damn.

Dean used to know his way in the woods. Learned real fast, after his first encounter with a Wendigo.

Maybe it's a curse Rowena cast on him. A confusing spell. Wouldn't put it past the fire-haired bitch. The cherry on the cake, a little “je ne sais quoi” that would ensure her that Dean, on top of being teleported in a frozen forest in the middle of the night, would find himself utterly, deeply, desperately lost.

Maybe it's the hypothermia.

Could be the huge gash on the back of his skull from when he slipped on a mushy stump and opened his head on a rock, too. That would have shaken up a bear.

Talking about bears, Dean's surprised he hasn't met one yet.

He's in Russia, right? Mongolia? Sweden? Or worse…

_Canada._

No way to find out. All he knows is that Rowena got mad at him for asking her in a bad Scottish accent to “stop bitchin' and get witchin'”, felt her eyes fall on him like a hawk on a tundra rabbit, and then he woke up lying in the snow in the middle of nowhere.

Sam's gonna hear about how much Dean hates witches, how he was right, how asking Rowena for help was his worst idea since he let an Alpha vampire turn him. Yeah, Sam's gonna wish he stayed in Hell when Dean gets back.

If he gets back.

_I bet his Sasquatch hair would keep him warm_, he thinks.

His Lynyrd Skynyrd t-shirt, black jeans and leather boots sure aren't. Dean's just thankful Rowena didn't yeet him out of the bunker in his Baby-washing shorts.

He's freezing his balls off alright.

Shivering between the asshole trees, Dean can't feel the pain in his feet, hands and head anymore, but he's not sure it's such a good thing.

What if he dies here? Standing upright like a sleeping horse, Chuck knows where, because Sam asked Rowena for help when they could have just busted that massive werewolf pack guns blazin'.

They could have done that, Dean's sure of it.

Cas was there, too, so it would've been easy-peasy, but _nooo_, Sam didn't want his brother and friend to take the risk of getting eaten alive by twenty-five wolfies, so here Dean is, alone, cold as fuck between asshole tree 2397 and asshole tree 2398.

“I HATE WITCHES!!!” the hunter howls in the wind. Someone standing a few feet away wouldn't have heard him. He feels like he swallowed the words right back, mute even to himself. The wind is that strong, his voice that weak, his body that tired.

_I'd rather have the taco-death_, Dean whines internally. He laughed for a week straight after Sam told him about that one, but now he'd rather die of a bad taco than here, now.

Dean's been standing there for what feels like a minute, catching his breath, but when he tries to put one foot in front of the other, his knees seem to lock him in place. His clothes are like marble on his skin, solid and heavy, his hair so spiky he could make them work as a weapon. If it wasn't for his heaving chest and fluttering eyelids, he wouldn't be moving an inch.

Like a statue, abandoned in the woods, left to be undiscovered for centuries.

_It's sad_, Dean thinks, just as his eyelids seem to feel too heavy for what they are. It's not the kind of death he would have thought as the worst, but it's not the one he would have liked better, either.

By reflex, Dean pushes his hands a little deeper under his armpits to keep warm, when he realizes he's actually feeling very hot, now. Like…

Insanely hot.

The hunter shakes his head and almost falls on his side, disoriented, drunk on the howling wind in his ears. He tries to ignore it, must be his brain, his nerves mixing temperatures up, but his whole body is rapidly burning up. One second, Dean's turning into a human popsicle, the other, he feels like a frozen french fry someone decided to deep fry.

His shirt is too much, so he takes it off. Doesn't feel the cold bite his exposed skin. Just knows if he doesn't take everything off right fucking now, he might choke on how hot his blood runs in his veins. Dean falls on his ass in the snow while pulling his boots off.

Doesn't feel a thing, except hot. Hot. Too hot.

Fucking _Rowena._

It must be her fault. This sudden temperature spike. Dean can just hear the witch's train of thought, with her stupid accent, and her stupid face, and her stupid bouncing hair, going: “You know whot would be even funnier than freezing to death in a Siberian forest? Dying of _heat_ in a Siberian forest, _nakid_!”

The hunter could gouge her eyes out, sprinkle them with the hottest pepper in the world and make her inhale them through her nostrils and feel_ nothing_.

Breathing hard, Dean tosses his jeans god knows where, and yeah, he's a little better now, laid out on the ground, only protected from the cold by his trunks and mismatched socks, making a nice snow angel right before passing out and dying yet another horrible death.

Damn, he's sleepy.

His head is buried in the snow, too, so he can't hear the wind all that much, he can't feel his body anymore, and all he can think of, right now, is how this strange state of being reminds him of Comfortably Numb.

You know. The Pink Floyd song.

“Hello…” Dean mumbles to the forest, eyes slowly closing.

No one answers. It's fine. He can sing this song by himself, he knows the words.

“Is there anybody in there ?”

The wind howls a little stronger, but nothing else pierces the white noise, so Dean keeps on singing.

“Just nod if you can hear me…”

He knows he's dying. He knows he should be trying to move. He knows he made a mistake when he stopped between asshole tree 2397 and asshole tree 2398. He knows he shouldn't have undressed. He knows he made a mistake when he sassed Rowena. Hell, he knows he made a mistake when he didn't kill the woman the second he set eyes on her, but it's too late for that.

“…'s there anyone at home…” Dean whispers, and yeah, his lips are gone, but it's such a nice song, and it's also kind of a classy thing to do, right now.

If he is to die naked, he can balance it out by singing a Pink Floyd song.

“There is no pain, you are receding…”

Dean sighs. It's true. His world is reducing in size. He can't sing anymore. Just think the lyrics, the melody, the instruments.

He wishes he could air-guitar the solo.

It's such a good solo.

He wishes he could feel things, too. Or open his eyes and look at the sky one last time. Wouldn't do him much good, though, because apparently the sky doesn't exist in this godforsaken country. There is nothing but clouds, and even if he could see through them, Dean has come to terms a long time ago with the fact that that familiar blue will never be enough compared to…

Where the fuck is this going.

There are a thousand things he should be thinking about, right now. He should be fantasizing one last time about how painful he could have made Rowena's death. He should be thinking about Sam, how he's gonna miss him, how his death is going to hurt him. He should worry about where his soul is off to, next. What's in store for him.

But strangely, all he can think about is:

_I wish the sky was the color of his eyes._

Wouldn't that be a pretty world?

Cas blue.

The thought is so ridiculously soothing Dean could throw up.

As he fades away, he's feeling comfortably numb.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FYI, Dean's reaction and sudden feeling of heat happen sometimes to victims of hypothermia and are called paradoxical undressing.
> 
> You know the drill, my loves: SEND COMMENTS AND KUDOS MY WAY PLZ I AM HUNGRY FOR LOVE AND ATTENTION


	2. The dream

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean has a dream. It's a nice, questioning one.

_There is no pain you are receding_

_A distant ship smoke on the horizon_

_You are only coming through in waves_

_Your lips move but I can't hear what you're saying_

_When I was a child I had a fever_

_My hands felt just like two balloons_

_Now I've got that feeling once again_

_I can't explain you would not understand_

_This is not how I am_

_I have become comfortably numb_

Something slowly brushes Dean's back.

Something light, but big.

Huge.

Something cold.

Or hot, scorching.

Which one?

You know, this feeling, on a winter's day, when your fingers are so cold it's like they're burning from the inside.

Dean is wrapped in that feeling, bathing in it, almost infused with it.

The huge, light thing moves again, this time all around him, all over his body. It's as if a weightless beast wrapped its limbs around him and fell asleep, its slow breathing lulling the hunter back to sleep.

_Can't be a monster_, Dean vaguely thinks, half-conscious and so close from dozing off again into oblivion.

A monster wouldn't just_ hold him_. Not any monster he knows, anyway.

So what is it?

_Is this a dream?_

The weird cold/hot feeling is becoming a warm, soft, definitely pleasant one, just as slowly and surely as the weight of the beast gets heavier and heavier on Dean's back. He's lying on his right side, he realizes, with the big, breathing thing all huddled against him, its huge limbs curled around his arms, chest and legs.

Dean lets the creature breathe in and out a few times before moving. His fingers unclench and he turns his head very slowly in an attempt to catch a glimpse of whatever's hugging the shit out of him in this weird, _weird_ dream, and then, he opens his eyes.

It's dark, almost pitch black, but he can still see them.

_Feathers._

Everywhere.

All around him, all over him, a mountain of feathers as far as he can see. Long, large feathers of a black so deep they look like delicate prisons for storming wormholes. Dean stirs a little more, somehow unafraid, somehow _reassured_ by that world of pitch-black strangeness surrounding him. He's curious.

To what kind of creature are those feathers attached to?

So Dean turns, turns, he tries not to disturb it, stops anytime he hears the beast breathe in case it wakes up and decides it would quite like a light snack after its nap, until he's facing it.

Dean's heart stutters. He freezes.

A human body, male, almost twice the size of a normal one, golden-skinned, lying naked on the side with six massive wings coming out of its back and lazily laid out on top of both them. The hunter can't make out his face, it's hidden by a lump of feathers, but whoever he is, he looks like he's sleeping soundly, unbothered by Dean's stupefaction.

If that dream isn't realistic, it sure _feels_ like it.

From the silky touch of the giant's skin and feathers, the burning warmth emanating from him, his big puffs of breath ruffling Dean's hair, his smell, his… weirdly impossible to name but familiar smell, it almost feels real, and it's overwhelming.

It _is_ a dream, tough, of course it is, because Dean watches his body turn face to face to the giant's, shuffle closer and wrap his arms around his large waist. He would never have done that if he was awake, and the giant would have never started to shrink until it fitted perfectly in the hunter's embrace, now human-sized, but still winged and nameless.

It's nice, how in dreams, we don't have to question everything we do or feel.

It's nice how Dean doesn't jump up or spontaneously bursts into angry, no-homo flames when he settles his chin on the winged man's shoulder without thinking about it, without stopping himself from sighing in contentment when they both end up wrapped in each other like they were always meant to.

It's nice how Dean can just enjoy things, for once.

“Are you an angel?” he can hear himself mumble in the winged man's hair.

The giant doesn't answer. Just keeps on breathing, in, out, in out.

“You're not like the ones I know,” Dean's mouth whispers, out of his control, but not far from what he's thinking. “My usual angels are douches.”

One of the man's wings brushes Dean's spine all the way to the back of his neck. He still can't see his face.

It's okay.

He doesn't need to, anyway. He's happy just lying there in pure warmth and comfort, not thinking about anything, not thinking about how naked they both are, how_ not straight_ that situation is, about how the _fuck_ this kind of dream ended up in Dean Winchester's subconscious.

“I wish you'd never leave,” he sighs.

This time, the angel's arms tighten around him.

“I wish you'd never wake up,” he finally speaks up, a surprisingly deep and booming voice coming from every direction, making both their bodies shake on whatever they're lying on.

Dean wishes he could answer “I'd like that, too”, but the dream is crumbling down, noises piercing it through and through like a veil, and he feels himself wake up.

He misses the dream already.

He misses the winged stranger, and then he takes a sharp inhale, and he's awake.


	3. Struggle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean wakes up.  
Huh.  
The dream wasn't that weird after all.

_Okay_

_Just a little pinprick_

_There'll be no more, ah_

_But you may feel a little sick_

_Can you stand up?_

_I do believe it's working, good_

_That'll keep you going through the show_

_Come on it's time to go_

From the moment Dean regains consciousness, he knows he should move.

At first, he thinks that maybe this is another layer of dream, Inception-style, because the situation he finds himself in is so similar to the one he just left, but then Cas says, almost begs him:

“Do not hit me.”

And Dean shuts his eyes closed again, because he feels so incredibly tired, and also because somehow, something, some part of him buried under 6 feet of reinforced concrete tells him to stay put.

Just for now.

Just to _try_.

The rest of him, though,_ boy oh boy_, is it shouting.

_WHAT THE _FUCK_ ARE YOU DOING?_

_Nothing_, Dean replies to his own mind, trying to stay calm, to not panic, because if he does, he might end up hitting Cas, and neither of them wants that to happen. _I'm just breathing, for now._

_Get up! Put on some damn clothes!_

_I'm too tired for that._

_Push him away! It's YOUR BED, he's in!_

_Too weak._

_You can't let him hold you, like _that_, any longer. It's disgusting._

_It's not. It's nice._

_What the fuck is wrong with you._

“I can explain,” Cas promises, his voice, his body, his whole being tense against Dean, and he should be, too, but he's not.

He feels strangely quiet, as if the stillness of the forest, the slowness of it all, unbothered by the wind, hatched in him.

Dean sighs deeply. His sweaty forehead is pressed against Cas' collarbone, his arms curled on his own chest, one of his legs slipped between the angel's. The back of his hands rise and fall with every breath of both men.

Why isn't Dean so uneasy, so sickened by this?

_I'm so warm_, he thinks.

As warm as he was cold, back in the woods.

“Is this real?” Dean croaks out after Cas' panicked heartbeat slowed down a little.

“Yes,” the angel says, cautiously.

“Okay.”

Dean can feel how confused his friend is, hell, he's just as confused by how calm he's acting, right now.

“Cas, why are we naked?” he asks with a half-bewildered, half-amused smile.

“We're not _naked_, Dean.” Cas scolds him, but it only makes the hunter huff a breathy laugh. “We're both clearly still wearing underwear.”

“O_kay_, so, why are we cuddling in our underwear?”

“We're not _cuddling_-”

“Just answer the damn question, Cas” Dean sighs.  
He's not angry, quite the opposite, actually and strangely enough, but he'd like to have some explanations, now. Cas thinks for a moment.

“You suffered from very advanced hypothermia,” he finally says. “Someone had to warm you up,” he ads, almost gingerly.

“And this is the only way you found?” Dean snorts.

“The fastest one that doesn't happen in a hospital, yes. Sam and Rowena sure weren't going to-”

_That_ makes the hunter's heart miss a beat.

“Sam knows?”

Dean's not sure himself of what he exactly means by that. Does his brother know he's being nursed back to health by the probably heaviest cuddling he's ever been a part of, and definitely the gayest? Does he know he's awake?

Does he know he doesn't exactly mind it?

“You were close to death,” Cas murmurs, and it's almost as if he knew what was going on in Dean's head, and he was trying to reassure him.

“What else is new,” the hunter whispers.

Both men fall silent, still wrapped in each other, still unmoving, unsure, unwilling while Dean's body recovers from the extreme cold it was exposed to. On one hand, he can feel all his limbs again – which also means he can feel every place his skin touches Cas'. On the other, he's ninety percent sure he's sick.

“How did you find me?” Dean sniffs.

“I made Rowena send me to the same place she sent you,” Cas answers, and he sounds glad to have something to talk about, to focus on instead of how neither of them made an attempt to jump out of bed now that Dean's conscious. “Then, I asked the squirrels.”

The hunter frowns.

“Really?”

“No.”

Dean raises his head so Cas can see his death glare.

Big,_ big_ mistake.

_Shit._

Dean can only see his smile for a second before the angel schools it back to his usual “I do not understand” frown, but _good Chuck_, what the _fuck_ was _this_ smile?

It was a relaxed one. A calm, easy one. Warmer than the sun, warmer than Dean's fever.

It was a close one, too. Just a few inches away, fleeing at the moment it got caught, like a wild animal well aware of what danger a human being represents.

Dean finds himself staring, mystified by how damn _domestic_ Cas looks.

His disheveled hair, five o'clock shadow, how Dean's pillow hugs his face but doesn't hide it, because, by all gods, it should never be hidden.

Dean lets himself stare with no idea, no plan of when he's going to stop. He's more than a little hazy, right now, which doesn't help his case, but he could always blame it on the fever later.

The truth is, he just likes what he's seeing.

_What's happening to me._

Cas tries to hold Dean's eyes, he's supposed to be the staring, awkward one, right? But this time, he's the first to look away, clear his throat and speak again, a little desperate to break whatever's happening, that low, deep and strange vibe both men can't put a word on yet and are a little scared of.

“I followed your footsteps, found you lying in the snow,” Cas says. “Rowena brought us back and Sam told me what to do.”

“'s that right?”

Dean tries not to sound like it, but if Cas followed Sam's advice, he's surprised at his brother's instructions.

“It is. It worked. You're okay.”

“I'm sick, is what I am,” Dean argues, just for the sake of it.

“But you're alive.”

“Guess I am,” the hunter smiles – it comes to him very easily, in this moment. His smile, he can feel it, is standing at the door like an impatient dog.

He shouldn't feel that good. He almost died, and now he's so sick he's clammy, and he can feel his own heartbeat all over his body.

“Lose any limb?” he asks after a long silence, the kind Cas has the secret to, but he doesn't mind it anymore – at least not today.

Today, he can deal with the quiet.

Today, he likes the quiet.

“No. Sam patched up your head wound. You're just ill.” Cas murmurs, and he looks weirdly happy.

Dean has to close his eyes. Has to be the fever, right? Or his head. He's hallucinating how nice this all feels.

_Keep it together, man._

“At least now I know what the nut a squirrel buried and forgot about feels like,” he mumbles.

“You need to drink something hot,” Cas says. “Don't move.”

He carefully untangles himself from Dean, sits on the bed, puts his clothes back on, walks to the door and closes it behind him like he's done it a thousand times. Leaving Dean in his bed to bring him back medicine. Taking care of him like a mom. No, not like a mom.

Like…

Dean groans and rolls in his sweaty comforter, face down with no one against him, and he doesn't like it.

_Did I suddenly turn into the cuddliest bitch?_

Now that Cas is gone and took all the quiet, the warm and the smiles with him, reality comes crashing back down on Dean. It always does, he's used to it, but he kind of hoped he could bask in whatever mood he woke up in a little longer.

First, it's the fever. Fuck, does Dean feel febrile and gross. His face is sticky, his eyes feel hot, his head hurts – the back of it, too, _oh _hi_, gash in the back of my skull from when I slipped on a rock and almost turned my brains into a strawberry shake_. How could Cas even stand being that close to him for so long? How could he even look at him and smile instead of cringing?

Then, it's… it's…

“I'm so fuuucked…” Dean whines into his pillow.

He's surprised this kind of _manifestation_ took so long to happen. Shit, no, it's not like he was waiting for it, it's just that–they _do_ have a special bond, Cas said it himself, and–they've grown close, for sure, but that's what happens when you survive through trauma together, right?

Dean pushes all the air out of his lungs, warming up the fabric around his face.

_I'm not that feisty anymore_, he thinks.

He fights every single thing in his life on a daily basis.

He fights monsters, he fights fate, he fights with Sam, with Cas, he fights with Rowena and he cannot wait to get better so he can give her a taste of her own medicine and lock her in one of those huge coolers, you know, the ones so perfectly sized to hold a small person it must have been designed for it.

Dean fights his demons, and most of all, he fights himself.

That's what people do, right? Struggle with everything, including themselves, to reach the ultimate goal that is happiness.

Struggle.

Struggle.

Struggle, every obstacle a fortified door we try to knock down with the biggest battering ram we have.

But why should he?

Dean replays the scene in his head, how nice it felt to be held, not because he's a thirsty bastard, but because of the indescribable way Cas held him. Like a relic, one so ancient and precious it's worth holding on with two strong, steady hands, because may God help him, if the angel dropped it, he would never live it down.

Dean reminds himself of how damn natural it all felt. Normal. Simple.

Easy.

Why should everything in his life be hard?

What if this time, this one time, there's no door to break down or leave behind?

What if the door's already opened, and all Dean has to do is cross the threshold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know it, deep in your heart. Dean is the cuddliest bitch.
> 
> Any spare comments?


	4. Impromptu Heaven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean and Cas finally get their heads out of their asses, and it's disgustingly sweet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Brace for the fluff

_There is no pain you are receding_

_A distant ship, smoke on the horizon_

_You are only coming through in waves_

_Your lips move but I can't hear what you're saying_

_When I was a child_

_I caught a fleeting glimpse_

_Out of the corner of my eye_

_I turned to look but it was gone_

_I cannot put my finger on it now_

_The child is grown_

_The dream is gone_

_I have become comfortably numb_

When Cas comes back with a steaming mug, he's alone.

Dean expected him to tell Sam he's awake and relatively okay – cue Dean being assaulted by his brother's bitchiest smirk since he literally stuck his hand in the cookie jar two months ago –, but no. Cas waits for him to sit up, gives him the mug and smiles when Dean grunts his gratitude before settling at the edge of the bed.

“Oh my _god_,” the hunter sighs, eyes closed, hunched over his cup he holds like it was made of gold. “Back in the woods, I would have sold a kidney for hot chocolate.”

Cas doesn't say anything, just keeps smiling that sly, a little bit too _usual_ smile. Dean misses the ones he got to see before. He wonders what changed.

“Where's Sam?” he asks after a long silence.

A flash of something, an emotion he can't put a word on but knows for sure isn't good, crosses Cas' face, immediately chased away.

“In the kitchen,” the angel answers flatly.

It's as if the Cas Dean woke up with disappeared behind his bedroom's door and older version of Cas took his place, back with the full package: he's sitting beside Dean with his back straight and his hands on his knees, unsure and awkward as all Hell. The comfortable warmth flowing between the two men seems to have faded away, like the angel poured everything in that mug and couldn't muster any more.

Dean frowns as he sips his scorching hot chocolate.

“Did you find a new broom to stick up your ass on your way to the kitchen?” he asks innocently, not breaking eye contact when Cas turns to him with a frown so tight it's _that _close to becoming a monobrow.

“What do you mean?” he says.

Dean shrugs.

“Nothin'.”

They stare at each other for a moment, defying one another to break and say something or back out. It could've gone for much longer if Dean didn't suddenly bend over, coughing his lungs out. Cas promptly takes the mug out of his hands and sets it on the nightstand. They both wait for Dean's coughing fit to stop until the hunter falls back flat on his bed.

He's feeling a tiny bit naked, bare chest and wearing close to nothing under the covers and Cas' stern care. While he was sick in some kind of _impromptu_ heaven a few minutes ago, he's now sick and glaring at the ceiling as if it was the one responsible for bursting his bubble.

_Fuck._

_It was a nice bubble, wasn't it?_

“How come Sam hasn't paid me a visit?” he asks the bunker's ceiling.

Cas doesn't answer right away.

The mood changed, that's for sure, and not for the best. Dean's almost pouting. Did he dream the way they acted around – against – each other when he woke up? Did he actually hallucinate the whole thing? What happened? Why is he so disappointed by the idea he imagined it all?

“I didn't tell him you woke up.”

Dean looks down. Cas is examining his hands, not exactly tense, but not peaceful, either.

“I sneaked past him to make you hot chocolate,” the angel ads with a little smile, as if surprised, amused by his own actions.

_There he is_, Dean thinks._ Thought I lost you for a hot second, there._

“Why?” he asks quietly.

Cas shrugs with one shoulder, doesn't say anything, and then it's back.

_It._

That warmth that came out of nowhere.

It's shy, it's tip-toeing, it's barely lukewarm, but it's back, like music slowly fading in a silent movie just before the credits start rolling, or asphalt catching the sun between two clouds.

“Why didn't you tell Sam?” Dean asks again.

“I… didn't want to bother him,” Cas mutters, unconvincing even to his own ears.

The hunter raises an eyebrow.

“'that the best you can do?”

Cas lets out a sigh so deep his shoulders sink.

“Come on dude, spit it out!” Dean laughs half-heartedly.

He sits back up on the bed, facing Cas, who turns to him and glares at him so coldly Dean has to admit he'd hate him to have his angel sword snuggly hidden in his sleeve, right now. This outburst is a little out of nowhere, but nothing in this situation – hell, their_ lives_ – is normal and it's not exactly out of character.

Doesn't stop him, though.

Dean nudges at Cas' thigh with his foot, almost pushing him off the bed, and yeah, that does it, because Cas hisses:

“I don't know what you want me to say, Dean. If you want me to leave, say it clearly.”

Dean's foot freezes under the covers.

“Ooo-kay?”

A sad, angry, “whatever” smile, and Cas is up, already walking to the door, and Dean is panicking, because that's not what he meant _at all._

“Wait! That's not what I-”

He's interrupted by another coughing fit, this one so strong it makes him curl upon himself. His body tenses up, he has to fight against his spasms not to choke. He's barely catching his breath when strong hands wrap around his wrists.

For once in his life, Dean shuts his eyes and lets himself be handled. Cas pushes his sweaty hair off his forehead, touches it with the back of his fingers.

He doesn't say anything.

Neither of them does.

Cas doesn't care about how clammy the hunter's skin is or how he's panting like an asthmatic horse, and Dean loves how cold Cas' palms feel on his cheeks, so he presses them with both hands and just… locks them there.

Cas doesn't move.

Neither of them does.

They just breathe in silence, two hands on each side of Dean's face.

He's back in Impromptu Heaven.

Dean's world is warm, from his fever to his heart, from Cas' presence to his body. The only cold spots are the angel's palms on his cheeks, and who knew a little cold could feel that good?

“I wish I wasn't me,” Dean confesses.

“What do you mean?”

Cas is so, so close, now. Dean's eyes are still closed, but he can feel his breath on his chest. He's inches away, almost as close as when they were cuddl-_warming Dean up._ This time it's different, though, because they're both very awake and very accountable for their future decisions.

Dean pushes Cas' hands up his face until they're covering his eyes. He's scared he might open them, meet the angel's and get scared.

“If I wasn't me, I would have kissed you a long time ago,” he sighs.

_God, I wish I did centuries ago_, he meant.

Cas frees his hands from Dean's hold and the hunter's heart freezes in his chest.

He fucked up.

Cas is pulling away.

It's over.

He's never going to see him again, or if Cas doesn't run from him like from the plague, it's never going to be the same.

He destroyed Impromptu Heaven, solely armed with a single sentence of pure honesty.

But Cas' hands only retreated for a fraction of a second, and now his fingers are brushing through Dean's hair, they caress his temples, his jaw, unleash chills so powerful the hunter shivers, his lips fall open.

“If you weren't you, I wouldn't want you to.”

Dean is selfish.

He knows he's sick, and he shouldn't think only about himself because Cas is human now, but if he doesn't take a leap right now, he might fall dead, and what a shame that would be, only hours after his umpteenth flirt with death.

He's ready to live with the guilt of making Cas a little sick.

He's lived with worse.

Eyes closed, Dean crashes his face against the angel's.

He misses, but not by much, so when he kisses the corner of his mouth, it only takes an inch of adjustment for their lips to lock.

It's as if a guillotine had just been activated, cutting every restraint they have ever harbored in themselves with exceptional efficiency and precision.

Cas' arms wrap around Dean's chest, Dean's hands slip under his trench coat to latch on his shoulders until they're flush against each other, and there it is again.

Impromptu Heaven.

Cas kisses with a lovely, truly intoxicating alloy of ferocity and tenderness. He holds Dean in his arms like letting go would kill him, so strong, so desperate it's making the hunter gasp for air, but come back for more, more, more please, or he'll die, too.

This is nothing like Dean imagined. Not that he imagined anything, mind you, but…

_Oh FUCK it._

He imagined it, their first kiss, of course he did, he pictured a shy, virgin, barely-there kiss in the dark, never followed by another, and he pictured a kiss so violent it would draw blood, and he pictured Cas kissing Meg, but in Meg's place, he saw himself, falling weak in the angel's embrace like he never lets himself fall, because then he wouldn't be Dean Winchester anymore and he owns that to the world, he owes that to the ones he knows, a strong, unwavering, consistent Dean Winchester, the lady killer, the one who acts, guns a-blazing, smile blinding.

Dean pictured him not being himself.

Cas was hugging him from behind in a badly lit hotel kitchen, he kissed his neck, and when Dean turned his face, their lips met and there was nothing left to fight.

Not himself, not who he's supposed to be, to like, not the vision the world has of him or the one he has of himself.

So today, sick and feverish, half-naked in Cas' arms, Dean falls headfirst into the empty pool of gentleness lying waiting, down, down at the bottom of his heart, and he watches it fill up as Cas presses closer until they collapse on the bed.

On a whim, Dean's legs wrap around Cas' and he licks the angel's lips open, immediately met by a hungry sigh and the deepest kiss he's ever been a part of – and ever thought Cas capable of.

_God_ , is he heavy and dense on top of him. The only times Dean has been under such a weight and will, he'd been tackled to the floor by a monster.

Cas is possessive, but careful, mindful. He doesn't crush Dean, even lets him breathe once in a while –  _how kind_ .

The hunter is holding Cas' face in both his hands when they calm down, and that's when he finally  _sees _ him.

Dean barely gets a glance before bursting out laughing.

“What's wrong?” the angel asks.

Dean shakes his head and kisses away the frown ruining the angel's beautiful, blissed-out expression.

“Nothing,” he wheezes, tearing up a bit, because this is too damn funny.

“Tell me!” Cas insists, laughing too – and a little at Dean when he starts coughing.

The hunter catches his breath, still giggling like a schoolgirl, but he doesn't have the energy to care.

“You're a ridiculously good kisser!” he manages getting out right before doubling over with laughter again.

Where the fuck has his charm and nonchalance gone? Where is that genuine _glee_ from being only kissed coming from?

Cas chuckles, beautiful,  _beautiful_ sound. He noses at Dean's laughing face until he sobers up and lets him kiss him again.

“You need to take a bath,” he tells him, barely audible against his cheek.

“Did I finally gross you out with my germs?” Dean snorts.

He scratches the space between Cas' shoulder-blades, making him drop his head on his shoulder and sigh in pleasure. Dean curses at God for allowing such an absurd thing as  _clothing_ to exist.

“No, your fever went up. You need to help your body fight your cold.”

“You know damn well why my fever went up.”

Cas raises his head to gaze at him. This time, it's unapologetic, unashamed. He didn't ask if he could stare the shit out of Dean and he doesn't need to. He's smiling a little, too, like he's wondering about something and he relishes in knowing he doesn't have to keep it to himself anymore.

“Are you going to be okay?” he whispers.

His voice so soft and low it makes Dean feel like a fragile thing protected by a huge creature – which used to be kind of true, with Cas being a seraph and all that stuff –, but hey, he'll take it.

This  _one_ time.

“I'll be fine, it's just a cold,” he starts reassuring him, until Cas shakes his head and meets his eyes again.

Blue, blue, blue, blue,  _blue_ .

“Are you going to be _okay_,” he repeats, his tone just different enough for Dean to understand.

The hunter's smile withers.

_God, I hope so._

“You won't let me bail on myself, right?” he murmurs a little warily. He follows the bow of Cas' top lip with his thumb. “Don't let me bail.”

“I won't. I promise.”

Dean sighs and plants a small kiss on Cas' mouth.

_Okay_ , it means. _ I'll try my best, but please help me, because I'm scared and this is gonna be rough._

He couldn't say that out loud, he's not that unbridled yet, but he doesn't need to anymore, not when he's that close to Cas, enveloped in him and his trench coat like a badly wrapped birthday present.

Maybe one day Dean will tell him about the six-winged angel, and how the happiness he felt in this dream would never amount to the pure, raw ecstasy Cas' offers him every time he lets their skin meet.

But today is not that day.

Today, Dean is content just lying there, sick as a dog with his arms full of blue eyed love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was very short, but I needed it. It was my birthday gift from me to me, and now it's 2 am again.
> 
> I hope you liked it and felt a little better after last week's episode (e3s15)… if you did let me know, I adore hearing from you.
> 
> <3


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